Thick as Blood
by Asteraceae
Summary: Two expats, trying to navigate the treacherous waters of the French Resistance, find the Basterds at their door. The wolves are on every side, and doors are steadily shutting in their faces. Stiglitz/OC
1. Chapter 1

The winter night was crisp, nippy enough that any exposed skin felt tight and raw. The wind wasn't too bad, but the clouds obscuring the stars over the mountain peaks to the northeast promised to change that. It was still, quiet; Aldo Raine could almost pretend he was in the foothills of the Smokies back home. Except Tennessee never got this cold, and Hirschberg wasn't there, jiggling his goddamn leg.

"Would you cut that shit out," Aldo hissed, finally snapping. Lord knew he cut these boys a lot of slack, drawing on reserves of patience he didn't know he had, but goddamn if he was going to listen to that steady thumping of Hirschberg's heel hitting the forest floor.

"Sorry, sir," Hirschberg muttered, a faint black outline to his left. "Fuckin' pins an' needles an' shit. It's cold as a nun's pussy out here. Can we go in yet, or what?"

Aldo heaved a long-suffering sigh, turning back to the house they were observing. It was supposedly a new rendezvous point with their resistance pals; his CO said something about a wealthy, disgruntled Swiss expat and promised fresh guns and ammunition. And food. And hopefully a nice glass of whiskey, too, he mused, though that might be a stretch.

He had to admit Hirschberg was right: it was freezing, and late- approaching midnight, if he had to wager. Smoke curled lazily from one of the chimneys poking over the roofline of the large house, and a soft glow from two of the windows promised at least one person was awake. Expecting them, he hoped; the all-clear signal would be candles in two of the windows, and they had been here long enough to make sure nothing was amiss. No Nazi cars parked in front, no soldiers creeping on watch, no shouts or gunfire. Just a warm house on a cold night.

"Alright," he finally relented. "Wicki, Stiglitz, you go to the door. Give us a whistle if it checks out." He didn't receive an answer, but shadows detached and moved across the forest floor. He could feel a collective breath being held as the two soldiers approached the house, and the door swung open. Faint strains of an exchange were carried over by the wind and the stillness, but it was in German, and too distant to hear, anyways. When a quick two-note whistle that could have been a birdcall sounded, there was a group exhale, and they moved forwards quietly. Or in Hirschberg's case, shuffled along while muttering curses about his dead foot.

When he was coming up the steps of the wide porch, the Basterds hot on his heels, more than ready for some warmth and food, he was surprised to see a redheaded girl- woman, he corrected himself, once he got closer- standing in the door, faintly illuminated by the light spilling out from the doorframe. He could practically hear the boys perk up behind him, and gritted his teeth. Now he had to keep a sharp eye on them, make sure they didn't fool around with this Swiss bastard's daughter or wife or what-the-hell ever she was and jeopardize this contact- a situation that happened a few times before, thanks to Donowitz. When Wicki caught his eye, raising his eyebrows in his usual subtle manner, he didn't understand what the man was trying to get across. But when the ginger gave him a wide, toothy smile and sang out "My countrymen!" in a clear, sure-as-can-be American accent, his own eyebrows shot up into his hairline. I'll be damned, he thought.

Tromping up into the doorframe, he noticed the girl didn't seem at all intimidated by the ten men scattered on her front porch. In fact, she stuck her hand out, and greeted him with "Lieutenant Raine?"

"Who the fuck are you? And where's our goddamn contact?" He barked back, not taking her hand. He could hear one of the men snicker behind him, and would have turned around and boxed him behind the ear if he wasn't both horrified and intrigued by this sudden development of an American girl in the middle of an occupied country.

She simply took his irritation in stride, moving aside to let them into the house. "Don't worry. Your, um, contact is in the study, at the end of the hall and to the right. The kitchen's opposite, if you're hungry. And I'm Annie Haywood," she intoned, her smile firmly in place. He was glad she found this so damn amusing, he snorted as he stomped past her, only turning to snap "Donowitz!" when he heard a distinctive Boston accent drawl "Hey, sweetheart" behind him. But apparently the promise of food trumped the possibility of getting laid, because Utivich, bless his little virgin heart, practically sprinted past him into the kitchen, where a meaty smell drifted past. Venison, if he wasn't wrong.

Stiglitz, Wicki, and Donowitz all followed him without him motioning to the end of the hall, giving him the time to glance around the house. Someone obviously wealthy lived here: hunting rifles and trophies up on the wall, lots of polished wood, wide glass windows and what looked like electric lights overhead- a rarity, out in the French boonies. Turning the corner into the study, his first impression was of the towering bookcases, floor-to-ceiling, so tall they needed one of those ridiculous rolling ladders to reach the top shelves. The heat of the fire practically slapped him, making his head snap to the desk across from it. He doubted his eyebrows could go any higher, but goddamn if they didn't try, because rising from the massive leather desk chair and the stacks of paper thrown across the desk was a tall, willowy, blonde woman, Hitler's wet dream if he ever saw one. Masses of curly blonde hair, high, elegant cheekbones, a dainty jaw, smoky brown eyes- he could feel his officer's eyes snap to her. She held their attention easily, giving them a small smile and an outstretched hand.

"Lieutenant Raine," she said, speaking with a crisp European accent not unlike Stiglitz's. Swiss, he realized, having never heard a Swiss accent before. "I'm so glad you've made it here intact," she finished, but was cut off by another snapped "Who the fuck are you? And are there any men in this goddamn house? 'Cause you sure as hell ain't named Heinrich Wolfflin." His drawl butchered the name, but he didn't really give a shit if this Nazi bride was offended. "No, she sure isn't," Donny said appreciatively, putting his hands on his hips and eyeing her up with a manic grin.

"Don't worry, he didn't shake my hand, either," Annie drawled, coming in to flop dramatically on one of the leather couches, immediately lighting a cigarette. He didn't spare the girl a glance, itching to take a snuff out of his box.

Blondie, much like her companion, didn't seem at all put off. "No, I'm not. I'm his daughter, Adriana Wolfflin," she said, amicably.

"And I'm supposed to take your word for it?" Aldo snapped, feeling peevish. Then he saw the photograph hanging above the fireplace, of a brawny blonde man, a waifish blonde woman, and a younger, chubbier version of the girl in front of him, posed around what looked like a dead lion somewhere grassy and flat. That explains the trophies, he thought, then felt like a fool, but he always stuck to his guns.

"Yes," Adriana answered simply, sitting back on the edge of her desk. "My family owns the Wolfflin firearms company," she continued, conversationally, as if she was used to hulking soldiers tramping through her house and vaguely menacing her. Although, all thing considered, she probably was. A glance over his shoulder to Wicki and Stiglitz confirmed this, as both gave him a nod. So a real company and a real family, apparently both real successful, judging by the air of old money the place and her manner conveyed. "I learned to shoot on a Wolfflin rifle when I was young," Wicki chimed in, a tad wistfully, as if he was reminiscing. A sharpish glare from Aldo shut him up, but Adriana beamed at him. "You see? They're good guns. The best, but I'm a bit biased," she said with another small smile, one that reeked of self-satisfaction.

"So where's daddy, then, princess?" Aldo intoned suspiciously, crossing his arms over his chest, refusing to trust this Swiss bitch an inch. Adriana heaved a sigh, going over to a decanter on the desk, and to Aldo's great relief, poured out several glasses of whiskey, handing them around. Annie, watching the unfolding drama with mild curiosity, made a noise of protest that she didn't receive one, but was roundly ignored. Sipping from her glass, Aldo felt his irritation grow, noting that she shared the same relaxed approach to other people's time as Stiglitz, who could turn the lighting of a cigarette into a five-minute production before getting around to answering his commander's question.

Just when he was about to smack the glass straight out of her hand, she answered. "He's been missing in North Africa for just under a year," she said simply and without emotion, as if remarking on the weather. "I've been running the company. My mother is dead and I have no other siblings, so it falls on me," she continued, sipping from her glass and gazing at him evenly. Donny snorted, Wicki scoffed, and even Stiglitz cracked a smirk- the closest he ever got to a smile- and Aldo stared in disbelief.

"You been runnin' a company in your daddy's name for a year? What the hell you doin' helpin' out the resistance, then?" He spat out, eyebrows receiving another workout. He managed to take a sip of whiskey, and was pacified somewhat. Ahh, home-made liquor.

"Yes," she said again, simply. "I have been. The reason I am helping the resistance is because I dislike the Nazis. A fascist economy brings down the European economy. It's all a bit precarious. I refuse to hold any contracts with the German government, so," she shrugged here. "They don't like having money and power out of their grasp. I doubt they would invade, but Hitler is a dangerous neighbor, and I refuse to let my family's company fall into the hands of a fascist state," she finished, saying the final phrase with such a strong air of disdain that it practically fell on the floor.

Donny's smirk was wiped clean off of his face, though Stiglitz's only grew. "I studied economics," she supplied with an indifferent shrug.

"God Almighty," Aldo intoned, rolling his eyes heavenward and reaching for his snuff box.


	2. Chapter 2

"So, let me get this straight and neat," Aldo said, leaning forward on the wooden bench in the kitchen. A steaming bowl of stewed venison was in front of him, which Kagan was eyeing hungrily, waiting for a moment to swoop in and seize it. The others had wolfed down theirs before the officers even left the study, and were now basking lazily in the warmth of the fire in the kitchen. "You sit out here in this eee-state," he drawled, "signin' dear ol' dad's name to all the paperwork, bankin' on the family name—and you don't get hassled none?" He finally took a chunk of venison when Kagan's hand was mere inches from his work, eliciting some mumbled curses.

Adriana shook her head, pursing her lips. Neither she nor the other one, Annie, were eating; so far, they seemed to exist off of whiskey and cigarettes. "I do, sometimes," she admitted warily. "But the Nazis keep their distance. It helps that I'm Swiss. If they want to speak with me, they tend to summon me. I suppose it makes them feel powerful, like they could snatch it all away if they wanted," she pondered, finally stubbing out her dog end of a cigarette and dropping it into her empty glass.

"They're all about the power play," Annie chimed in from the other end of the long wooden table, where she was feeding chunks of stale bread to a large, lolling wolfhound. "If it makes them look big and scary and tough, they'll do it. Why else would they make you go all the way to them, so they can sit at their big desks and wave their flags and march their enlisted up and down for your benefit?" This elicited an appreciative snort from Donny, which made Annie pin him with a hard stare.

"I wouldn't go casting stones about that, if I were you," she drawled to him, gesturing to his bat and raising her eyebrows. Picking up on what she meant, his lazy demeanor turned surly, and his dark eyes narrowed, and his mouth opened to say something that he would surely regret as the other men snickered, Hirschberg elbowing Utivich, who was turning a faint shade of pink from secondhand embarrassment.

Cutting in before the conversation could deteriorate any further, Wicki looked at Annie seriously. "What are you doing here?" He asked, a dark shadow behind his words hinting at a threat, if she cared to look.

She gave him a lazy smile in return, a hint of bite in her own words as she said, very carefully, "My daddy was a communist."

All heads, previously either dozing or only half-listening, swung to face her. Adriana smiled faintly, watching this play out.

"Like the Ruskies?" Hirschberg asked, and wilted when Annie fixed him with a stare that could have melted a hole in a stone wall. "No," she said emphatically. "Not like those nepotistic oligarchs. He helped found the IWW," she added, pride coloring her voice.

Aldo let out a laugh, genuinely amused for the first time all night. "Your papa was a wobbly?" He chuckled. "Got-damn, girl, no wonder Roosevelt ain't welcomin' you back with open arms. Where is he now? Leadin' another peasant revolt?"

Her face flamed in anger from his teasing, and she snapped "No, he's dead. He was falsely accused of murder before he left, so I'm proud to not go back," she declared, earning what seemed like a collective eye roll. "Capitalist pigs," she added faintly, as an afterthought.

"Christ on a bicycle, what a weird fuckin' world it is," Aldo shook his head and muttered to himself, finishing his meal. The two girls were most definitely the only occupants at the moment- excepting what could be anywhere between two and five dogs, he wasn't sure. The house was large and gracious, obviously built on the assumption that there would be a full staff of servants. The oversized fireplaces were proof enough of that, as were the long wooden tables they were sat at. The room was cozy and homely, classic French peasant: herbs and dried meat hanging from the ceiling, copper pots hung over the stove, dogs underfoot. Warm, he thought to himself. Nice. He could see why the Swiss girl decided to take up residence here, especially if the situation was as delicate as she hinted at.

The Basterds seemed to collectively decide to sleep in the kitchen with the fire, though Kagan and Sakowitz had already slipped out for first watch. Adriana rose, indicating she was going to retire; Annie followed soon after. Aldo noted with quiet dread the way Stiglitz's eyes seemed to follow the Swiss girl, not looking forward to discouraging the German. Stiglitz was a dangerous beast, perhaps more so than Donny, because when push came to shove, he wasn't sure if Stiglitz would obey his orders if they ran counter to something he really, truly wanted.

Like a name off of his list. Or a beautiful woman, who, even he had to admit, was on the dangerous side of clever.

* * *

Standing in front of her bedroom window, the lantern she used to guide her way up extinguished so she could better see the view, Adriana tensed when she heard a floorboard creak behind her.

"Yes?" She asked, in German, already suspecting who it was, and knowing that she wouldn't have heard him if he didn't want her to.

"Admiring the view?" His gravelly voice intoned, and her hair stood on end when she realized that he was much closer than she thought. She didn't turn, but flinched slightly when she felt his breath on her hair. He wasn't touching her, but she could feel the heat from his body, and just the sense of him being there was enough. He knew it, too, the smug bastard.

"Why not? It's mine to admire," She responded quietly. His faint chuckle at that blew a strand of hair in her face, and she impatiently moved to tuck it behind her ear. "Why, exactly, are you in my bedroom?"

"There are a few reasons, but I don't think you'd like to hear them," he promised lowly, and she bit her lip, schooling herself to not snap at him. "I'm just wondering, a lovely, rich, lonely girl like you," he started, and she could see the faint reflection of his face in the glass. She tried not to look at it, focusing instead on the open, empty pastures and the distant tree line. "You should have Nazi suitors beating down your door. An established company, a big bank account, and a beautiful woman? It's all a bit hard to resist," he smirked, and she looked down, suddenly liking him less.

"I wouldn't presume to know the minds of men," she responded quietly, ducking out from in front of him. "You should rest," she advised as she drifted towards her wardrobe. She didn't hear him leave, but the sudden coolness at her back and vast emptiness in the room told her she was alone once more.

* * *

Author's Note: Annie's father is based on the real Socialist leader Big Bill Haywood. He did flee the country after being accused (probably rightly so) of murder, but didn't have any wife or kids. He died, drunk and alone, in Moscow in the late 1920's.


	3. Chapter 3

p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;"The next morning as the sun rose weakly over the treeline, Adriana found herself in the saddle of her father's horse. She hadn't bothered to enter the kitchen once she woke, preferring to avoid any Basterds. The cold air was much more refreshing than breakfast, anyways; she savored the sharpness of it and the way it seemed to wake her whole body. Faustus seemed to feel the same. He was moving eagerly under her leg, his handsome face swinging to look at the trees around them, breath steaming out in great clouds that hung around his nose momentarily. The world was quiet this far out into the property, with the soft creaking of the leather saddle, Faustus' snorting breaths, and the gusts of wind in the trees as the only soundtrack./p  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;"She was curving along the base of the nearest mountain, following a hunter's path through the trees running parallel to a stream that surged with mountain runoff in the spring and summer. Now, however, it was iced over, and Adriana couldn't shake the feeling of unease that the stillness of the winter woods gave her. The trees stretched out along the path, forming a tunnel that never seemed to grow shorter; though she knew the property well, she momentarily felt as if she were lost or out of time, cut adrift from the world. The path stretched ahead of and behind her, seeming to move with her, keeping her stuck forever. Feeling a tightening in her chest, a sudden burst of panic seized her. Faustus felt it, and surged forwards under her, legs swallowing the path. Adriana let him run, giving him his head. For a wild moment, she felt that the only way to escape was to run, as fast and as long as the world would allow./p  
hr /  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;"Aldo Raine sat on a bench on the wide, flagged stone patio behind the house, having a leisurely smoke as he observed his men on watch, checking their weapons, preparing to leave the following day. They had decided to move closer to Paris, where the pickings were riper; he enjoyed the solitude of the mountain lodge, but there was shit to be done, asses to be kicked. Hitler don't stop for nothing, so neither did the Basterds. The American girl, Annie, had told him that Adriana had gone out riding early in the morning as she pounded the tar out of some bread dough when he rose for breakfast; he didn't bother telling her that Donowitz had already provided him with that tidbit. The walloping she laid down on the dough was more useful, and she had enough foresight to bake several loaves. Good, hearty, peasant bread, the kind his granny would make in the fall, cutting off slices to eat by the woodstove as soon as they came out./p  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;"He wasn't surprised when he saw the mounted Adriana burst out of the treeline on the far side of the fenced field below him, the massive black horse collecting himself together now that they were out in the open. There was something about women and horses, he mused, watching the pair slow to a bouncy, rocking horse canter. The women in the Smokies could ride just as well as the men, maybe even better—the skittishness of both creatures seemed to make them, if not cut from the same cloth, then at least kindred spirits. Or maybe it was the wandering soul of them both, the urge to get up and move and run; he didn't know what corners of a girl's being latched onto the freedom that came with riding a horse, and he doubted he ever would./p  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;"Men, however, he knew very well, he mused as Hugo Stiglitz deigned to join him. Too well, if he was honest. The shit he had to address with this band of soldiers was enough to make him never leave his wife and daughters again, barring the door and taking a shot at any man that came close. That way he would never have to hear two grown-ass men comparing their relatively poor experience with women and break up the resulting fight; a pleasure that Utivich and Kagan had given him early this morning. Or deal with the got-damn macho posturing Donny seemed to constantly adopt./p  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;""Your people's neighbors with this girl's people," Aldo drawled, studying Stiglitz out of the corner of his eye. He was like a bull, he got affronted if you looked him dead in the eye. Best to edge in from the side, both in person and in conversation. "What charms have these bastards got that lets 'em get away with not stickin' their nose in a war that's sittin' on their doorstep?"/p  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;"Exactly like a bull, Stiglitz seemed to know his intentions, and could side-step them with ease. But Raine could bet his eyes were glued to the horse and rider, now drifting along at a walk, two figures alone in the world. An opening he would sure as shit save for later. It was always useful to know his men's weaknesses, like Wicki's affinity for whores or Hirschburg's tendency to get moody whenever anyone reminisced about home./p  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;""Some like Nazis, some don't," he eventually supplied, with an indifferent shrug./p  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;""Dammit, Stiglitz, can we trust this bitch in the long haul or not?" Aldo snapped, wanted to beat the little smirk that popped up on Stiglitz's face once he saw he got a rise out of the lieutenant./p  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;""Yes," he supplied, simply. At Aldo's snort of irritation, he eventually continued. "She wouldn't offer her home if she didn't want to have us in her debt. And two women, alone in the mountains?" He raised an eyebrow, and Aldo got his drift. A test, seeing the nature of the guerilla soldiers. Though he doubted either of these girls were strangers to dealing with the business end of men./p  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;""She ain't tellin' us the whole truth, I don't think," he mused, and Stiglitz grunted in confirmation, taking a drag of his cigarette./p  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;""You be careful," he added, as an afterthought. At Stiglitz's incredulous look, Aldo glared. "You know what I mean," he said darkly, and Stiglitz chuckled./p  
p style="margin-bottom: .11in; line-height: 108%;""She can't stand on her own forever," he promised, watching the horse and rider disappear into the low-slung stable, swallowed into the darkness of the empty building./p 


End file.
